Political correctness has gone mad! A care home has been forced to apologise after a male member of staff granted an elderly resident her lifelong wish. This was to be served fish-and-chips by a man in skimpy underpants. Fearful of the reaction from the impotent middle-aged puritans who send their parents to such establishments, the director of the home admitted to “overstepping the mark” in permitting this act of charity. The moral obligation to grant an old woman her last wish was conveniently ignored. She wasn’t actually dying, as a matter of fact, but at the age of 90 such nuances verge on the technical.
My only criticism of this feisty old biddy is that the meal she ordered did not suit the waiter’s costume. A man in thongs should deliver dessert rather than main course – rhubarb crumble, strawberries and cream, or possibly even spotted dick. Fish-and-chips should be served by a saucy fellow in pirate gear, with a buttonless jacket hanging loosely over his bare torso and a gleaming cutlass dangling beside his britches. Before presenting the plate of deep-fried fare, he would pluck a juicy chip for himself, smearing it with salty sweat from his brow before munching it down in a single gulp.
“Best chips I’ve tasted since young Nellie Buxley greased me pistol in Port Royal!” he might say. “Sink yer choppers into them victuals, granny! It’ll give ye the energy ter chase a nimble cabin boy up the crow’s nest and strip him like an overripe mango!”
“Arrhaarrh, me old beauty!” he might add.
The aged, of course, are entitled to their fun. I once asked a male escort how he went about his work if the client happened to be an old lady.
“The hands and feet of a woman are the parts least affected by age,” he explained. “So I start by taking off my clothes and inviting her to feel the goods like fruit in a market stall.”
“An ingenious prelude,” I remarked. “Do they enjoy these examinations?”
“You bet they do!” he exclaimed. “The older a woman is, the more pleasure she gets from giving pleasure.”
“Female gorillas are just the same,” I said nodding. “And what of the feet?”
“A foot-massage goes down well, if you’ll excuse the pun. But I only suck her toes if she asks me to.”
“A wise precaution,” I observed. “She would surely recoil in horror if you tucked into her tootsies uninvited. No woman wants to be orally ravished by a foot fiend, whatever her age. I assume you consummate the service in the usual manner?”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “Switching off the lights and thinking of Joan Collins gets me through it.”
“Well quite,” I said. “Who else would one think of in such a situation? You clearly have it down to a fine art, my good man. Perhaps you should consider writing a manual for future practitioners of your worthy occupation.”
“I may just do that when I hang up my boots!” he chuckled.
We parted on amicable terms.
Old age is the fate of the fortunate, a time to discard the burdens of ego before making one’s peace with eternity. It’s a pity the old woman had to wait a lifetime to be served by a man in a thong, but the modest good humour of her ambition suggests a contented, unregretful spirit. To reconcile my readers to the inevitable sands of time, I shall hold another group meditation session this Wednesday at 2200 hours, Eastern Congo Time. I can’t guarantee to bring peace to your soul, but it should be more satisfying than a pot noodle and a wank in the long run.
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